Authors: Mariah Stewart
The Long Way Home
I
HEAR
it’s going to go down to the thirties tonight. You might want to bring in some of that firewood from the back porch
.
Jeez, way to dazzle with your wit, O’Connor. Could you have been any smoother than that?
What a dumb-ass.
He watched in the rearview mirror as Ellie leaned down to pick up something from the ground. There was no denying that she intrigued him on more than one level. He liked the way she looked, liked that she didn’t appear to fuss with herself too much. And that he was attracted to her … well, what guy wouldn’t be? Besides her good looks, there was a grace about her, in the way she moved and the way she gestured and spoke. She gave every indication of having been well educated, but poorly prepared for the task that she’d set for herself here in St. Dennis.
And that, to Cam’s mind, was just the start of where the problems came in.
Something just wasn’t quite right about Ellie Ryder.
The Long Way Home
is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
A Ballantine Books eBook Edition
Copyright © 2013 by Marti Robb
Excerpt from
At the River’s Edge
copyright © 2013 by Marti Robb
All rights reserved.
Published in the United States by Ballantine Books, an imprint of The Random House Publishing Group, a division of Random House, Inc., New York.
B
ALLANTINE
and colophon are trademarks of Random House, Inc.
This book contains an excerpt from the forthcoming book
At the River’s Edge
by Mariah Stewart. This excerpt has been set for this edition only and may not reflect the final content of the forthcoming edition.
eISBN: 978-0-345-54027-0
Cover art: Chris Cocoazza
Cover design: Scott Biel
v3.1_r1
Diary
When I was young and impatient and would say things like “I wish Christmas would hurry and get here!” or “I wish I were twelve already”—or fifteen, or eighteen, whatever the perceived magic age was at the time—Mother would always say, “Don’t wish your life away. Time passes quickly enough.” Another of her favorite expressions was “The older you get, the faster time flies.” The truth of the latter has been made clearer to me with each passing year
.
It seems that only last week or so, my daughter was planning that first big wedding at the inn last winter, and now here we are, a year later, Halloween behind us and Thanksgiving only weeks away. I blinked, and we went from talking about Lucy coming home for the summer to staring down the barrel of winter all over again
.
Another of Mother’s favorite expressions was “Be careful what you wish for.” On my last birthday, I made two wishes: I wished that my two wandering children would come home—come home and stay home. Well, half of that wish has come true with Lucy coming back … and joy! Making plans to marry Clay, just like I always knew she would do. Now if I could only wish Ford home as easily, I’d be the happiest woman on earth. Oh, I know I should count my blessings—and I do, every day. But with Ford
involved in … well, who knows where he is or what he’s doing? Certainly not I. People ask me what UN Peacekeepers actually do, and sometimes I’m not even sure myself. I know he’s somewhere in Africa. He said if he told me exactly where, I’d worry too much and he’d rather not lie if he didn’t have to, and that he’s safe where he is, so I shouldn’t be anxious. But really. What kind of mother would I be if I didn’t worry after hearing that?
Exactly
.
Sometimes I ache so much to have him home—to have all three of my babes safely under this roof with me. Even though they’re adults, they’re still my babes, and I still worry and fret over all of them
.
Lucy thought she’d be having a wedding of her own this fall, but since word has spread that she’s the new event planner at the inn, business has gone through the roof and she hasn’t had time to plan her own wedding. She’s so good at what she does, transforming the inn into something different for every happy couple. I don’t know where she gets her ideas from. I just hope she saves something wonderful for herself!
Anyway, it’s nice to head into another holiday season. Lately, though, I’ve been sensing that something’s coming, something that’s about to change our world here in St
.
Dennis—not in a significant way, but a change nonetheless, and I can’t quite get a handle on it, but I think I’ll know it when I see it
.
I suppose I could consult the next world and see what my spirit friends have to say—Alice
always
has something to say—but on the other hand, since the change doesn’t feel like a threat, perhaps it might be more fun to just wait and see what comes our way!
Grace
S
O
this is St. Dennis
.
Ellis Chapman drove slowly along Charles Street—slowly enough to earn her a few short polite beeps from the cars following her. At the top of the street, where she’d turned off the highway, there’d been an old farmhouse and an orchard on the left side of the road, and woods on the right. Where the farmland ended, a residential area began with a long block of lovely old homes set on nice lawns surrounded by old shade, mostly maples and oaks. The fallen leaves had blanketed many of those nice lawns with yellow and red and brown, all just waiting to be raked into irresistible piles into which the neighborhood children would surely jump.
The commercial district crept up gradually: it took a moment for Ellis to realize that the clapboard houses she’d passed were actually a restaurant, an antiques dealer, a bookstore, a gift shop, a children’s clothing store, and a candy store. The heart of the district had a handful of storefronts. There was a cupcake bakery, a women’s clothing store, another restaurant
with an upscale look about it, a coffee shop, a flower shop, and a small newsstand that apparently sold beverages, judging by its name, Sips.
Nice
, she thought as she drove along.
All the basics, but with a slightly trendy touch
.
She continued on through the town, past a sign announcing a marina, yet another restaurant, and an ice-cream parlor.
Looks like the people around here like to eat
.
“Works for me,” she murmured.
The drive from Massachusetts had taken longer than she’d anticipated, though she was still almost thirty minutes early for her appointment. She made a left turn and drove around the block. Once back onto Charles Street, she made a second pass through town, trying to decide how best to assuage her hunger. There was no time for a meal, but coffee and maybe a quick snack would be welcome. She parked across the street from the coffee shop—the sign read
CUPPACHINO
in a stylized script—and headed down against the wind, dodged the midafternoon traffic to cross to the other side.
She pushed open the coffee shop’s red door and rubbed her hands together to warm them while she glanced around for an empty table. She was just about to head for one when a little wave from the teenage boy at the counter caught her eye.
“I can take your order here,” he told her. He went on to explain, “We’re counter service only.”
“Oh. Well …” She squinted to read the handwritten menu on the chalkboard behind him.
“Take your time. No hurry.”
“I’d like a large regular coffee with whole milk.” She paused to survey the edibles. She really shouldn’t indulge, she told herself, right before she heard herself say, “And one of the vanilla cupcakes with the pink frosting.”
“Excellent choice.” The boy nodded his approval and poured her coffee into an oversize blue mug. “Cream and sweeteners are over on the cart there behind you.”
“Oh,” she said for the second time, and turned to locate the station.
